


Whisper of Acheron

by sinfullysweetobsessions



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Birthday Fluff, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Christmas, F/M, Forbidden Love, Forgiveness, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Innocence, Jealousy, Loss of Innocence, Love, Male-Female Friendship, Mildly Dark!Tumnus, Nostalgia, Poetry, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Regret, True Love's Kiss, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfullysweetobsessions/pseuds/sinfullysweetobsessions
Summary: Golden sun falls through the windows, but his smile is cold as snow; it seems his summer on the surface hides a winter far, far below.
Relationships: Lucy Pevensie & Tumnus, Lucy Pevensie/Tumnus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not one of mirth in the traditional sense in reference to this pairing. There shall be no particular moment wherein Lucy realises her love for Mr Tumnus as she grows into a charming young woman, and there shall be no occurrence where Mr Tumnus professes his great (and albeit sudden) love for our young Queen. This story is one of love, indeed—but I wished to experiment with this pairing. If you are apprehensive about reading my little story, don’t be.
> 
> Have courage, dear heart, and enjoy. :)

“ **_When you stood up and walked away, barefoot, and the grass where you lay left a bed in your shape, I looked over it, and I ached._ **”

His eyes trail after the words before him—once, twice, _thrice_. Somewhere, within the deep recesses of his mind, he thinks it quite amusing how he had acquired the thick volume of poetry currently seated upon his lap long before he had met her; it is a bittersweet kind of amusement, knowing that the words had never resonated with him more deeply than they had when she had entered his life so abruptly. ‘ _Sweet serendipity_ ,’ he supposes. No longer did the words merely resonate with him, however, as he now _lived_ them, _breathed_ them. Her presence - or rather the lack thereof - had so nonchalantly carved the words into his feeble heart. ‘ _Sweet, sweet serendipity_ ,’ he thinks rather glumly.

He remembers her.

He is gentle when he closes the book. It had been her favourite. His fingertips graze the spine with unmatched tenderness; a sweet caress. A dull pain erupts within his throat and his vision is blurred beneath the onslaught of tears. A single one falls from its confines to land upon the aged leather of the cover, and his soft sniffles reverberate throughout the otherwise deathly silent cave.

He remembers her fingers.

They had been slender and nimble. He remembers watching her turn the pages gently, her soft lips enunciating every word that she had landed upon with her beautiful eyes to him. Remembers the soft crease between her brows that would only form when she came across a word foreign to her. How her cheeks would significantly redden beneath the heat radiating from the crackling fire. How she would grow increasingly frustrated when the strand of hair that she had tucked behind her ear would fall before her eyes… again; and he would simply smile softly from behind her before pulling the long, dark strands back to tie them with a single crimson ribbon.

She had been so young. Oh, so young. And it had been painful when his eyes would land upon her youthful features, and he would be reminded of the notion that she was but a child. A little girl. He, of course, had always refrained from voicing this notion to _her_ , as she had already perceived herself to be a young woman at the ripe, old age of twelve.

Still.

She had been anything _but_ a young woman.

But, by _Aslan_ , he had loved her _so much_. Had never ceased to.


	2. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll plant a row of daisy seeds in the space below each eye, so they'll remind you of your beauty when they bloom each time you cry." ~ Erin Hanson.

She is warm. He thinks it rather odd of himself to notice as much. Yet, when her small fingers brush against his so that she may grasp the cup of tea that he is so graciously offering to her, it is as though he may almost _feel_ the life pulsating within her. As though he may sense the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, or the flow of blood within her veins. His gaze falls to land upon her developing chest wherein lays her precious heart, and it frightens him. It frightens him that a single muscle within her young body determines her existence, rules the entirety of her being. A large portion of him wishes only to keep her always by his side so that he may shield her from all of the forces that conspire against her life. She is _so_ young and _delicate_ and—

He is thrust forth from his reverie by the sound of her girlish giggle, soft and muffled in its nature, but no less enrapturing. The girl is peering up at him over the rim of her cup, eyes narrowed slightly in curious observation. He clears his throat before slowly leaning in towards her. Lucy’s eyes widen slightly as she intently watches him do so. A brief moment of silence ensues between them, and neither of them so much as _stirs_. Her brows are furrowed as she gawks up at him quizzically. His gaze flits between her doe eyes before he sticks his tongue out at her rather mockingly. She promptly erupts into a fit of laughter, and he simply offers her a sheepish grin.

The youngest Queen’s mirthful laugh continues to resonate throughout the dim cave and his smile falters slightly as he watches her in unadulterated awe. Her youthful features are bathed in a subtle, peachy glow emanating from the fireplace. An intense shudder threatens to wrack his body as he continues to unashamedly gander at her. Her pure beauty _radiates_ , and, for a fleeting moment, he wonders if moments like these are what tales are comprised of—what _poetry_ is made of. Do moments like these _nourish_ the soul and drive one to attempt to capture them and treasure them for all eternity in the form of divine literature? His lips curl into a small smile. He knows that no amount of words or phrases could ever paint so beguiling a vision as the one before him at this very moment.

Later that evening, when she has already departed for Cair Paravel, he reflects on their afternoon together. He queries if perhaps her skin tingles as his does when their hands touch, or when they brush past each other. If she takes notice of it as he so often does. Perhaps it comforts and warms her as much as it does him; makes her feel a little less alone in this vast world. He shakes his head with a tender smile at the mere thought.

An entire week passes before he is once again graced by her presence—and it is on this occasion that her hands linger upon his for the first time. A single one of his fingers twitches nervously beneath her warm touch, but when he looks up and into her bright eyes, they are even warmer. He swallows as he stares at her in wonderment. The dark blue of her eyes is adorned with a single glint, respectively. She offers him an amiable smile before pulling away. The moment is over. He wonders why she hadn’t noticed it; the touch, the brush of skin against skin. The moment is over. But, her presence is _invigorating_ , and she gleams within the dull light. ‘ _She be the flame_ ,’ he muses silently, ‘ _a_ _nd I the moth consumed by it_.’


	3. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Life is unpredictable; it changes with the seasons. Even your coldest winter happens for the best of reasons. And though it feels eternal, like all you'll ever do is freeze, I promise spring is coming, and with it, new leaves." ~ Erin Hanson.

His fingertips visibly pale beneath the force with which he grips the goblet of wine. He blinks rapidly in an effort to eliminate the threat of tears as his gaze weaves through the crowd before him in search of the one he truly wishes to see. Lucy is jovial in her dancing, and he finds himself utterly mesmerised by the enthralling sight. His bottom lip quivers as he exhales shakily and brings the goblet up to his lips. The wine is sweet and warms him in a way that comforts him.

He watches her for so long that it is almost as if she senses it, for moments later, their eyes lock and she grins at him from across the room. She is positively _beaming_ and filled to the brim with life; exuberant, jubilant, perfect. He stands there, momentarily unfocused as he stares at her. He tries to return her smile but doesn’t quite manage to. Hers falters slightly as she continues to observe him, expression laced with concern. Though his vision is blurred, and he sways slightly where he stands, he can see her. Her delicate figure bears a soft outline in the faint light, giving her the appearance of an enrapturing otherworldly creature—one descended from the heavens. He sees her; sees the little girl she once was and the woman she shall be, and then he sees only her, just her. Just Lucy. _This_ Lucy, caught somewhere in between.

He averts his eyes after a brief moment. A strange feeling engulfs him and forces him to turn away. When a satyr offers to dance with him, he doesn’t refuse; but his mind is far from present.

Hours later, when the ball has ended and all of the guests have departed, he watches the girl pirouette down the hall before him. It is hard to focus on her with his somewhat bloodshot eyes, but he placates himself with the sight of her blurry figure in the mellow moonlight nonetheless. She is a bright and beautiful blur, prancing about in her pale blue dress with her dark tresses tumbling delicately about her pretty face. A bashful smile graces his lips as he clambers behind her until she comes to an abrupt halt. She appears distant for a moment.

“I quite like wearing a corset,” she concludes contentedly.

He raises an eyebrow at her in vague amusement. “Really?”

She nods. “It makes me feel—”

“Grown-up?” he interjects.

“Of course!” she beams up at him. “And, honestly, I don’t know _why_ Susan always insists upon _complaining_ about wearing one. It’s quite thrilling!”

“ _Thrilling?_ ” he questions, regarding her with unadulterated fascination.

“Oh, yes. And did you _see_ the way Peter and Edmund glared at me? I suppose it never occurred to them that their baby sister is no longer a _baby_ ,” she muses.

“Indeed,” he replies wryly.

“I must admit, I was quite anxious about how they would react. Susan seemed quite comfortable with lending me her corset, telling me I’m growing up… but I was afraid that Peter would object, or at the very least Edmund would—”

“ _Well_ ,” he interrupts her once again, finding it increasingly difficult to conceal the slight tremor plaguing his voice, “you _are_ only twelve.”

She briefly eyes him before rolling her eyes with a smirk. He swallows and ruefully wonders which of them he is reminding.

“Oh, you’re a sourpuss, too,” she retorts with a simper; much too merry to take offence. “I _know_ I look nice, so you might as well just say it and be done with it.”

He looks at her, _really_ looks at her - and finally focuses whilst doing so - and finds that he does want to. Because she does look nice. But, for some reason, the words taste funny in his mouth. Nevertheless, she offers him a broad smile that only serves to unnerve him. She is so kind, so _warm_ and genuine in her charms that it startles him. She bids him a hasty farewell before disappearing around the corner. He watches her leave with what may only be discerned as relief before turning on his hooves and stumbling away.


	4. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps we only leave so we may once again arrive to get a bird’s eye view of what it means to be alive, for there is beauty in returning. Oh, how wonderful, how strange, to see that everything is different but know it’s only you who’s changed.” ~ Erin Hanson.

Despite the sun's steady descent into the abyss below the horizon, the evening air remains sultry. A warm breeze sweeps among the trees, rustling the greenery and claiming the few fallen leaves which lay limp upon the ground. A lone bird's song sounds; a melodic accompaniment to the whisper of the breeze. It is something from a fantasy, he notes, and glances up at the branches looming over them. He tries to paint it into his memory; their gentle merry sway, the rays of the dying sun filtering through the leaves, the accompanying psithurism… but he finds himself watching her instead. She is animated and full of anecdotes, and he absentmindedly picks at the blades of grass protruding from the borders of their picnic blanket as he listens to her.

“I thought it was absolute _tosh_ if I’m all that honest,” she concludes with a huff.

He offers her an affiliative smile. “I must say that I agree.”

She grins at him before finally biting into the strawberry jam sandwich in her hand—she had been holding it for the duration of her story. The gentle breeze carries the tart smell of it and the fresh remnants of summer rain adorning the grass. He flinches when she makes a sudden move towards him, thrusting the sandwich before his face in offering. He glares at it for a brief moment before politely accepting. She watches him bite into it and doesn’t even attempt to stifle her amused giggle when she notices the speck of strawberry jam clinging to the corner of his mouth. Before he can question her on it, she licks her thumb and uses it to wipe the remnants of the fruit away.

“Silly faun,” she mutters sweetly.

For a moment, he simply sits before her, stunned beyond words. When their eyes meet, he marvels at the subtle blush spreading across her cheeks. His own face burns with a far more perceptible tinge of pink. She pulls away from him slowly to sit on her haunches and smile at him tenderly.

He chuckles shyly. “Cheeky human.”

The silence that ensues between them does not loiter, for in the next moment, the girl is attempting to scramble away from him, her hearty laughter ringing through the forest. Even when he finally manages to grasp her ankle, her cry is one of mirth and delirium. He revels in his victory as he towers over her. Her brows furrow slightly as she stares up at him, eyes gleaming with intrigue. He smirks before licking his thumb and attempting to return her previous favour. She erupts into a fit of laughter and thrashes beneath him until he is forced to retreat whereupon she tackles him, sending him rolling amid the remains of their picnic.

“I say, Mr Tumnus, all grown up and _still_ making a mess? For _shame_ —” she teases... and then she feels the change in the air.

She props herself up on his bare chest and cocks an eyebrow at him, and the vision she makes - a messy, unruly Queen, with her mussed hair and dress stained with dirt, sprawled in the summer light - somehow isn’t funny anymore, and he doesn’t quite know why.


End file.
